Keith of the Border by Randall Parrish

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He reached the startled girl, thrust aside the dark hair combed low over
the neck, swung her about toward the light, and stared at a birthmark
behind her ear. No one spoke, old Waite seemingly stricken dumb, the woman
shrinking away from him as though she feared he was crazed.

"What is it?" asked the sheriff, sternly.

Slowly Waite turned about and faced him, running the sleeve of his coat
across his eyes. He appeared dazed, confounded.

"My God, it's all right," he said, with a choke in the throat. "She's--
she's the girl."

Christie stared at him, her lips parted, unable to grasp what it all
meant.

"You mean I--I am actually Phyllis Gale? That--that there is no mistake?"

He nodded, not yet able to put It more clearly into words. She swayed as
though about to faint, and Fairbain caught her, but she slipped through
his arms, and fell upon her knees, her face buried in her hands upon the
chair.

"Oh, thank God," she sobbed, "thank God! I know who I am! I know who I
am!"

Chapter XXXI

The Search for the Missing

The note of unrestrained joy of relief in the woman's voice rang through
the room, stilling all else, and causing those who heard to forget for an
instant the sterner purpose of their gathering. Fairbain bent over her,
like a fat guardian angel, patting her shoulder, her eyes so blurred with
tears as to be practically sightless, yet still turned questioningly upon
Waite. The sheriff was first to recover speech, and a sense of duty.

"Then this lets Miss Maclaire out of the conspiracy charge," he said,
gravely, "but it doesn't make it any brighter for Hawley so far as I can
see--there's a robbery charge against him if nothing else. Any one here
know where the fellow is?"

For a moment no one answered, although Keith took a step forward, reminded
instantly of Hope's predicament. Before he could speak, however, Christie
looked up, with swift gesture pushing back her loosened hair.

"He was to have met me at the theatre to-night," she said, her voice
trembling, "but was not there when I came out; he--he said he had
important news for me."

"And failed to show up--did he send no message?"

"Doctor Fairbain was waiting for me instead. He said that Mr. Hawley was
called suddenly out of town."

The eyes of the sheriff turned to Fairbain, whose face grew redder than
usual, as he shifted his gaze toward Keith.

"That was a lie," he confessed, lamely. "I--I was told to say that."

"Just a moment, Sheriff," and Keith stood before them, his voice clear and
convincing. "My name is Keith, and I have unavoidably been mixed up in
this affair from the beginning. Just now I can relieve the doctor of his
embarrassment. Miss Hope Waite and I have been associated together in an
effort to solve this mystery. This evening, taking advantage of the
remarkable resemblance existing between herself and Miss Maclaire, Miss
Hope decided upon a mask--"

"What's that," Waite broke in excitedly. "Is Hope here?"

"Yes, has been for a week; we've had all the police force of Sheridan
hunting you."

The old man stared at the speaker, open-mouthed, and muttered something
about Fort Hays, but Keith, paying little attention to him, hurried on
with his story.

"As I say, she decided upon impersonating Christie here, hoping in this
way to learn more regarding Hawley's plans. We had discovered that the two
were to meet after the evening performance at the stage door of the
Trocadero. I escorted Hope there, dressed as near like Miss Maclaire as
possible, and left her inside the vestibule waiting for 'Black Bart' to
appear. At the head of the alley I ran into Fairbain, told him something
of the circumstances, and persuaded him to escort Miss Christie back to
the hotel. He was not very hard to persuade. Well, Hawley came, and Hope
met him; they went out of the alley-way together arm in arm, talking
pleasantly, and turned this way toward the hotel. The doctor and I both
saw and heard them. I was delayed not to exceed two minutes, speaking a
final word to Fairbain, and when I reached the street they had
disappeared. I have hunted them everywhere without finding a trace--I have
even been through the resorts. She has not returned to the hotel, and I
burst in upon you here hoping that Miss Maclaire might have some
information."

She shook her head, and Waite, glaring impotently at the two of them,
swore sharply.

"Good God, man! my girl! Hope, alone with that damn villain. Come on,
Sheriff; we've got to find her. Wait though!" and he strode almost
menacingly across the room. "First, I want to know who the devil you are?"

Keith straightened up, looking directly into the fierce questioning eyes.

"I have told you my name--Jack Keith," he replied, quietly. "Doctor
Fairbain knows something of me, but for your further information I will
add that when we met before I was Captain Keith, Third Virginia Cavalry,
and bearing despatches from Longstreet to Stonewall Jackson."

The gruff old soldier, half-crazed by the news of his daughter's peril,
the gleam of his eyes still revealing uncontrolled temper, stared at the
younger face fronting him; then slowly he held out his hand.

"Keith--Keith," he repeated, as though bringing back the name with an
effort. "By God, that's so--old Jefferson Keith's boy--killed at Antietam.
And you know Hope?"

"Yes, General."

He looked about as though dazed, and the sheriff broke in not unkindly.

"Well, Waite, if we are going to search for your daughter we better be at
it. Come on, all of you; Miss Maclaire will be safe enough here alone."

He took hold of Keith's arm, questioning him briefly as they passed down
the hall. On the stairs the latter took his turn, still confused by what
he had just heard.

"Who is Miss Maclaire?" he asked.

"Phyllis Gale."

"Of course, but who is Phyllis Gale? What has she to do with General
Waite? His daughter has told me she never heard of any one by that name."

"Well, Keith, the old man has never told me very much; he's pretty close-
mouthed, except for swearing, but I've read his papers, and picked up a
point or two. I reckon the daughter, Miss Hope, maybe never heard a word
about it, but the boy--the one that was shot--must have stumbled onto the
story and repeated it to Hawley. That's what set that fellow going. It
seems Mrs. Waite's maiden name was Pierpont, and when she was seventeen
years old she was married to the son of a rich North Carolina planter. The
fellow was a drunken, dissolute good-for-nothing. They had a daughter
born--this Phyllis--and when the child was three years old her father, in
a fit of drunken rage, ran away, and to spite his wife took the little
girl with him. All efforts to trace them failed, and the mother finally
secured a divorce and, two years later, married Willis Waite. Waite, of
course, knew these facts, but probably they were never told to the
children. When the father of Mrs. Waite's first husband died, he left all
his large property to his grandchild, providing she could be found and
identified within a certain time, failing which the property was to be
distributed among certain designated charities. Waite was named sole
administrator. Well, the old man took as much interest in it as though it
was his own girl, but made mighty little progress. He did discover that
the father had taken the child to St. Louis and left her there with a
woman named Raymond, but after the woman died the girl completely
disappeared."

"Then Miss Maclaire is Hope Waite's half-sister?"

"That's the way it looks now."

"And Hawley merely happened to stumble on to the right party?"

"Sure; it's clear enough how that came about. The boy told him about the
lost heiress his father was searching after, and showed him his sister's
picture. 'Black Bart' instantly recognized her resemblance to Christie
Maclaire, and thought he saw a good chance for some easy money. He needed
the papers, however, to ascertain exactly the terms of the will, and what
would be necessary for the identification. He never intended to go into
court, but hoped to either get Waite out of the way, or else convince him
that Christie was the girl, relying on her gratitude for his profits. When
Waite played into his hands by coming to Carson City, the chance was too
good to be lost. I'm not sure he meant to kill him, but he did mean to
have those papers at any cost. Probably you know the rest--the girl was
easy, because she was so ignorant of her parentage, and nothing prevented
Hawley from winning except that Waite got mad and decided to fight. That
knocked over the whole thing."

They were outside now, and the first touch of the cool night air, the
first glance up and down the noisy street, brought Keith to himself, his
mind ready to grapple with the problem of Hope's disappearance. It seemed
to him he had already looked everywhere, yet there was nothing to do
except to continue the search, only more systematically. The sheriff
assumed control--clear headed, and accustomed to that sort of thing--
calling in Hickock and his deputies to assist, and fairly combing the town
from one end to the other. Not a rat could have slipped unobserved through
the net he dragged down that long street, or its intersecting alleys--but
it was without result; nowhere was there found a trace of either the
gambler or his companion.

They dug into saloons, bagnios, dance-halls, searching back rooms and
questioning inmates; they routed out every occupant of the hotel, invaded
boarding houses, and explored shacks and tents, indifferent to the
protests of those disturbed,--but without result. They found several who
knew Hawley, others who had seen the two together passing by the lighted
windows of the Trocadero, but beyond that--nothing. Convinced, at last,
that the parties sought were not alive in Sheridan, and beginning to fear
the worst, the searchers separated, and began spreading forth over the
black surrounding prairie, and by the light of lanterns seeking any
semblance of trail. There was no lack of volunteers for this work, but it
was daylight before the slightest clue presented itself. Keith, with the
sheriff and two or three others, had groped their way outward until, with
the first flush of dawn, they found themselves at the opening of a small
rocky ravine, near the foot of "Boots Hill." Peering down into its still
shadowed depths, they discerned what appeared like a body lying there
motionless. Keith sprang down beside it, and turned the rigid form over
until the dead face was revealed in the wan light--it was that of the red
moustached Scott. He staggered back at the recognition, barely able to
ejaculate.

"Here, Sheriff! This is one of Hawley's men!"

The sheriff was bending instantly above the corpse, searching for the
truth.

"You know the fellow?"

"Yes, his name was Scott."

"Well, he's been dead some hours, at least six I should say; shot just
above the eye, and good Heavens! look here, Keith, at the size of this
bullet wound; that's no man's gun in this country--no more than a '32'
I'd say."

"Miss Waite had a small revolver. She must have shot the fellow. But why
did they leave the body here to be discovered?"

The sheriff arose to his feet, prowling about in the brightening glow of
the dawn.

"They were in a hurry to get away, and knew he wouldn't be found before
morning. A six hours' start means a good deal. They did drag him back out
of sight--look here. This was where the struggle took place, and here is
where the man fell," tracing it out upon the ground. "The girl put up a
stiff fight, too--see where they dragged her up the path. From the
footprints there must have been half a dozen in the party. Get back out of
the way, Sims, while I follow their trail."

It was plain enough, now they had daylight to assist them, and led around
the edge of the hill. A hundred feet away they came to where horses had
been standing, the trampled sod evidencing they must have been there for
some considerable time. Keith and the sheriff circled out until they
finally struck the trail of the party, which led forth southwest across
the prairie.

"Seven horses, one being led light," said the former. "That was Scott's,
probably."

"That's the whole story," replied the sheriff, staring off toward the bare
horizon, "and the cusses have at least six hours the start with fresh
horses." He turned around. "Well, boys, that takes 'em out of my baliwick,
I reckon. Some of the rest of you will have to run that gang down."

Chapter XXXII

Fairbain and Christie

Dr. Fairbain had originally joined the searching party, fully as eager as
Keith himself to run down the renegade Hawley, but after an hour of
resultless effort, his entire thought shifted to the woman they had left
alone at the hotel. He could not, as yet, fully grasp the situation, but
he remained loyal to the one overpowering truth that he loved Christie
Maclaire. Fairbain's nature was rough, original, yet loyal to the core. He
had lived all his life long in army camps, and upon the frontier, and his
code of honor was extremely simple. It never once occurred to him that
Christie's profession was not of the highest, or that her life and
associations in any way unfitted her for the future. To his mind she was
the one and only woman. His last memory of her, as the little party of men
filed out of that room, haunted him until he finally dropped out of the
search, and drifted back toward the hotel.

It was a late hour, yet it was hardly likely the woman had retired. Her
excitement, her interest in the pursuit, would surely prevent that;
moreover, he was certain he saw a light still burning in her room, as he
looked up from the black street below. Nevertheless he hesitated,
uncertain of his reception. Bluff, emphatic, never afraid to face a man in
his life, his heart now beat fiercely as he endeavored to muster the
necessary courage. Far down the dark street some roysterer fired a shot,
and sudden fear lest he might be sought after professionally sent the
doctor hurriedly within, and up the stairs. He stood, just outside her
door, quaking like a child, the perspiration beading his forehead, but a
light streamed through the transom, and he could plainly hear movements
within. At last, in a sudden spasm of courage, he knocked softly. Even in
that noisy spot she heard instantly, opening the door without hesitation,
and standing fully dressed within. She was no longer a discouraged,
sobbing girl, but an aroused, intent woman, into whose pathetic, lonely
life there had come a new hope. She appeared younger, fairer, with the
light shimmering in her hair and her eyes smiling welcome.

"Oh, Doctor," and her hands were thrust out towards him, "I am glad you
have come. Somehow, I thought you would, and I have wanted so to talk to
someone--to you."

"To me! Do you really mean that, Miss Christie?"

"Yes, I really mean that, you great bear of a man," and the girl laughed
lightly, dragging him into the room, and closing the door. "Why, who else
could I expect to come to-night? You were the only one really good to me.
You--you acted as if you believed in me all the time--"

"I did, Christie; you bet I did," broke in the delighted doctor, every
nerve tingling. "I'd 'a' cleaned out that whole gang if you'd only said
so, but I reckon now it was better to let them tell all they knew. It was
like a thunder storm clearing the atmosphere."

"Oh, it was, indeed! Now I know who I am--who I am! Isn't that simply
glorious? Sit down, Doctor Fairbain, there in the big chair where I can
see your face. I want to talk, talk, talk; I want to ask questions, a
thousand questions; but it wouldn't do any good to ask them of you, would
it? You don't know anything about my family, do you?"

"Not very much, I am afraid, only that you have got an almighty pretty
half-sister," admitted the man, emphatically, "and old Waite possesses the
vilest temper ever given a human being. He's no blood kin to you, though."

"No, but he is awfully good underneath, isn't he?"

"Got a heart of pure gold, old Waite. Why, I've seen him cry like a baby
over one of his men that got hurt."

"Have you known him, then, for a long while?"

"Ever since the Spring of '61. I was brigaded with him all through the
war, and had to cut a bullet or so out of his hide before it ended. If
there was ever a fight, Willis Waite was sure to get his share. He could
swear some then, but he's improved since, and I reckon now he could likely
claim the championship."

"Did--did you know my mother also?" and Christie leaned forward, her eyes
suddenly grown misty. "I haven't even the slightest memory of her."

The doctor's heart was tender, and he was swift to respond, reaching forth
and grasping the hand nearest him. He had made love before, yet somehow
this was different; he felt half afraid of this woman, and it was a new
sensation altogether, and not unpleasant.

"I saw her often enough in those days, but not since. She was frequently
in camp, a very sweet-faced woman; you have her eyes and hair, as I
remember. Waite ought to have recognized you at first sight. By Heavens!
that was what made me so internally mad, the mulish obstinacy of the old
fool. Your mother used to come to the hospital tent, too; one of the best
nurses I ever saw. I thought she was a beauty then, but she's some older
by this time," he paused regretfully. "You see, I'm no spring chicken,
myself."

Her eyes were upon his face, a slight flush showing in either cheek, and
she made no effort to withdraw her imprisoned hand.

"You are just a nice age," with firm conviction. "Boys are tiresome, and I
think a little gray in the hair is an improvement. Oh, you mustn't imagine
I say this just to please you--I have always thought so, since--well,
since I grew up. Besides, fleshy men generally look young, because they
are so good natured, perhaps. How old are you, Doctor?"

"It isn't the gray hairs I mind, either," he admitted hesitatingly, "but
I'm too darned bald-headed. Oh, I ain't so old, for I was only thirty-five
when the war broke out. I was so thin then I could hardly cast a shadow.
I've changed some since," casting his eyes admiringly downward, "and got
quite a figure. I was forty-three last month."

"That isn't old; that's just right."

"I've been afraid you looked on me as being an old fogy!"

"I should say not," indignantly. "Why should you ever think that?"

"Well, there were so many young fellows hanging about."

"Who?"

"Oh, Keith, and Hawley, and that bunch of officers from the fort; you
never had any time to give me."

She laughed again, her fingers tightening in their clasp on his hand.

"Why, how foolish; Hawley is older than you are, and I was only playing
with Keith. Surely you must know that now. And as to the officers, they
were just fun. You see, in my profession, one has to be awfully nice to
everybody."

"But didn't you really care for Hawley?" he insisted, bluntly probing for
facts.

"He--he interested me," admitted the girl, hesitatingly, her eyes
darkening with sudden anger. "He lied and I believed him--I would have
believed any one who came with such a story. Oh, Dr. Fairbain," and she
clung to him now eagerly, "you cannot realize how hungry I have been for
what he brought me. I wanted so to know the truth of my birth. Oh, I hated
this life!" She flung her disengaged hand into the air, with a gesture
expressive of disgust. "I was crazy to get away from it. That was what
made the man look good to me--he--he promised so much. You will believe
me, won't you? Oh, you must; I am going to make you. I am a singer in
music halls; I was brought up to that life from a little girl, and of
course, I know what you Western men think of us as a class. Hawley showed
it in his whole manner toward me, and I resented it; just for that, deep
down in my heart, I hated him. I know it now, now that I really understand
his purpose; but some way, when I was with him he seemed to fascinate me,
to make me do just as he willed. But you have never been that way; you--
you have acted as though I was somebody--somebody nice, and not just a
music-hall singer. Perhaps it's just your way, and maybe, deep down you
don't think I'm any better than the others do, but--but I want you to
think I am, and I am going to tell you the truth, and you must believe me
--I am a good girl."

"Great God! of course you are," he blurted out. "Don't you suppose I know?
That isn't what has been bothering me, lassie. Why, I'd 'a' fought any
buck who'd 'a' sneered at you. What I wanted to know was, whether or not
you really cared for any of those duffers. Can you tell me that,
Christie?"

She lifted her eyes to his face, her lips parted.

"I can answer any thing you ask."

"And you do not care for them?"

"No."

He drew his breath sharply, his round face rosy.

"Then you have got to listen to me, for I'm deadly in earnest. I'm an old,
rough, bald-headed fool that don't know much about women,--I never thought
before I'd ever want to,--but you can bet on one thing, I'm square.
Anybody in this town will tell you I'm square. They'll tell you that
whatever I say goes. I've never run around much with women; somehow I
never exactly liked the kind I've come up against, and maybe they didn't
feel any particular interest in me. I didn't cut much shine as a ladies'
man, but, I reckon now, it's only because the right one hadn't happened
along. She is here now, though, all right, and I knew it the very first
time I set eyes on her. Oh, you roped and tied me all right the first
throw. Maybe I did get you and that half-sister mixed up a bit, but just
the same you were the one I really wanted. Hope's all right; she's a
mighty fine girl, but you are the one for me, Christie. Could you--could
you care for such a duffer as I am?"

Her lips were smiling and so were her eyes, but it was a pleading smile.

"I--I don't think it would be so very hard," she admitted, "not if you
really wanted me to."

"You know what I mean--that I love you,--wish you to be my wife?"

"I supposed that was it--that--that you wanted me."

"Yes, and--and you will love me?"

Her head drooped slowly, so slowly he did not realize the significance of
the action, until her lips touched his hand.

"I do," she said; "you are the best man in the world."

Fairbain could not move, could not seem to realize what it all meant. The
outcome had been so sudden, so surprising, that all power of expression
deserted him. In bewilderment he lifted her face, and looked into her
eyes. Perhaps she realized--with the swift intuition of a clever woman--
the man's perplexity, for instantly she led his mind to other things.

"But let us not talk of ourselves any more, to-night. There is so much I
wish to know; so much that ought to be done." She sprang to her feet.
"Why, it is almost shameful for us to stay here, selfishly happy, while
others are in such trouble. Have they discovered Hope?"

"No; we scoured the whole town and found no trace. Now they are outside on
the prairie, but there can be little chance of their picking up a trail
before daylight."

"And Hawley?"

"He has vanished also; without doubt they are together. What do you
suppose he can want of her? How do you imagine he ever got her to go with
him? She isn't that sort of a girl."

She shook her head, shivering a little.

"He must have mistaken her for me--perhaps has not even yet discovered his
mistake. But what it all means, or how he gained her consent to go with
him, I cannot conceive."

She stood with hands clasped, staring out the window.

"There is a little light showing already," she exclaimed, pointing. "See,
yonder. Oh, I trust they will find her alive, and unhurt. That man, I
believe, is capable of any crime. But couldn't you be of some help? Why
should you remain here with me? I am in no danger."

"You really wish me to go, Christie?"

"Not that way--not that way," and she turned impulsively, with hands
outstretched. "Of course I want you here with me, but I want you to help
bring Hope back."

He drew her to him, supremely happy now, every feeling of embarrassment
lost in complete certainty of possession.

"And I will," he said solemnly. "Wherever they may have gone I shall
follow. I am going now, dear, and when I come back you'll be glad to see
me?"

"Shall I?" her eyes uplifted to his own, and swimming in tears. "I will be
the happiest girl in all the world, I reckon. Oh, what a night this has
been! What a wonderful night! It has given me a name, a mother, and the
man I love."

He kissed her, not in passion, but in simple tenderness, and as he turned
away she sank upon her knees at the window, with head bowed upon the sill.
At the door he paused, and looked back, and she turned, and smiled at him.
Then he went out, and she knelt there silently, gazing forth into the
dawn, her eyes blurred with tears--facing a new day, and a new life.

Chapter XXXIII

Following the Trail

The withdrawal of the sheriff merely stimulated Keith to greater
activity. It was clearly evident the fugitives were endeavoring with all
rapidity possible to get beyond where the hand of law could reach them--
their trail striking directly across the plains into the barren southwest
was proof of this purpose. Yet it was scarcely likely they would proceed
very far in that direction, as such a course would bring them straight
into the heart of the Indian country, into greater danger than that from
which they fled. Keith felt no doubt that Hawley intended making for
Carson City, where he could securely hide the girl, and where he possessed
friends to rally to his defence, even an influence over the officers of
the law. The one thing which puzzled him most was the man's object in
attempting so desperate a venture. Did he know his prisoner was Hope
Waite? or did he still suppose he was running off with Christie Maclaire?
Could some rumor of Waite's appeal to the courts have reached the gambler,
frightened him, and caused him to attempt this desperate effort at escape?
and did he bear Miss Maclaire with him, hoping thus to keep her safely
concealed until he was better prepared to come out in open fight? If this
was the actual state of affairs then it would account for much otherwise
hard to explain. The actress would probably not have been missed, or, at
least, seriously sought after, until she failed to appear at the theatre
the following evening. This delay would give the fugitives a start of
twenty hours, or even more, and practically assure their safety. Besides,
in the light of Waite's application to the sheriff for assistance, it was
comparatively easy to conceive of a valid reason why Hawley should vanish,
and desire, likewise, to take Miss Maclaire with him. But there was no
apparent occasion for his forcible abduction of Hope. Of course, he might
have done so from a suddenly aroused fit of anger at some discovery the
girl had made, yet everything pointed rather to a deliberate plan. Both
horses and men were certainly waiting there under orders, Hawley's
adherents in charge, and every arrangement perfected in advance. Clearly
enough, the gambler had planned it all out before he ever went to the
Trocadero--no doubt the completion of these final arrangements was what
delayed his appearance at the hotel. If this was all true, then it must
have been Christie, and not Hope, he purposed bearing away with him, and
the latter was merely a victim of her masquerade.

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